


Three

by Worldofwords



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-05
Updated: 2013-03-05
Packaged: 2017-12-04 10:01:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/709510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worldofwords/pseuds/Worldofwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was a response to this prompt:  Sherlock/John. Kissing in the rain. Nay, making out in the pouring rain. Bonus: The final problem/The Empty House.</p>
<p>This was posted on the <i>first part</i> of the kinkmeme in 2010. As a result, Sherlock's "death" is completely different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three

It had been three years. Three years of desperation, three years of brokenness, three years where every second was held close to his chest. He knew if he opened his fingers even a little, if he allowed himself to peer at hope, it might shatter. So he waited.

He had his job and it was acceptable. Frankly, most people would say it was fantastic. His life was no longer threatened. His sanity no longer pranced along the edge. He slept. He ate.

He fucked.

It wasn't hard to find women who's name started with the letter S. In fact, it was almost a game. A game he imagined his flat-mate pondering over. How many women can John H. Watson find whose name starts with S? How many times can he get away with nearly screaming, moaning, panting, breathing and singing _Sherlock_?

It proved rather easy. The hard part was finding women whose name started with S and had black hair.

He actually found a woman named Sheronda. Her hair was short, curly and pure ebony. However, when John got very drunk one night, Sheronda told him that she wanted her neighbours cat Mr.Huggy to join them.

It was then that he decided that he could rather easily stop seeing other people.

John waited, for he knew that Sherlock was alive.

Obviously everyone tried to convince him otherwise. They showed him a body. They gave him a print-out of DNA. A video. A recording. Ella made him face "reality".  But he knew. Not in some ' _he is my everything, I would know_ ' romance novel way. No.

It was Mycroft. Mycroft, the enigma. The man might be able to terrify whole nations with his voice, his eyes might burn the floor beneath his feet, but they couldn't parody grief.

John knew Sherlock was alive. All he had to do was _wait_.

He was actually smiling. It was Mrs.Hudson's birthday. Flowers, dinner and a movie. She might just be a 'landlady' but she was _his_ landlady and his friend. Together they had grieved over Sherlock. Shared stories. Watched the weeks, months, then years go by. They both knew; he would be back.

John had looked both ways. He'd run across the street. But then he heard a child scream. He tensed, turned, and relaxed as he saw a tired mother pick up a sodden teddy bear.

He never actually felt it. Or heard it. He was standing one moment, the next he awoke in a hospital bed. A tube was down his throat; all he knew was heat and pain and noise.

It took six months of recovery. The solider in him appeared from behind the curtain. It took on all the physical pain. It took on all the exercise. It refused the medication. His leg, truly, was damaged. His limp was one that could never be corrected by a stern look, or a few weeks with a gazing therapist. Or even a friend.

The pain made him miss Sherlock even more. For while he knew his legs could no longer join the 'consulting detective' in his endeavors, he knew his mind and heart could.

Every single time he ascended or descended the steps, he struggled. Sweat would dribble down his temple. Pain would growl and hiss at him. Mrs.Hudson had _finally_ ceased her hand wringing. But she would always gaze after him, her eyes cloudy. Yet John would not give up the flat. He would not give up the steps.

It wasn't unusual for the sleek, black, car to appear at 221B. It awaited and he entered. This time, however, the interior was almost impossibly dark and warm. It was also empty. The journey took an hour. When the door popped from its latch, and John pushed it open, a lush wood was revealed. The moment he shut the door, the vehicle drifted off.

_How cliché_. John tried not to wince as he stood. The seventeen steps, paired with the now drenching rain, caused his leg to tremble.

John's hand pressed into the handle of the cane. He limped towards a wide tree and rested against it. The rain, punctuated by deep rumbles of thunder, only increased in volume. His hair was a lost cause. The coat he had zipped on was soaked, heavy upon his shoulders.

"John?" The voice was deeper than he remembered but there was no mistaking it. Low, calm, with a slight edge to it.

His mind seized, unable to see the man the voice belonged to. He heard a noise to his left and turned.

"Sherlock?"

"Obviously."

The eyes, it was all he saw. Almond shaped, perfectly sized, and the most stunning shade of blue-grey. To look at them was to drown in liquid smoke.

Part of John expected an exact copy of Sherlock. Yet he had changed. His face, if possible, seemed even more sharp and defined. His cheeks however, as always, held no hint of stubble; John wondered if he could grow facial hair at all. His eyes soon rose to the top of Sherlocks head. The hair, black, so black it had an almost greenish tint to it, had grown slightly, brushing Sherlock's neck and eyelids.

Sherlock seemed just as absorbed in John. Yet while John's face relaxed, while his eyes reflected wonder, Sherlock only mirrored pain. For the man before him had changed completely. He was pale, his face was drawn, gray was peppered about his hair and he was leaning into the cane with every ounce of strength he had left.

Sherlock finally, mercifully, stepped closer. He ran his fingers through John's hair and smiled. "You know, after all this time I thought I would have so much to say to you. Now I can't think of anything."

John raised his hand and touched the Sherlock's cheek. He listed slightly, and was instantly supported by a firm grip. "Fuck. You are here? Aren't you?" John lowered his head and pressed it against the solid, warm chest before him. Everything collapsed. His mind. His heart. His legs.

Sherlock caught him. Arms. Chest. Wool. Hands. They all pressed themselves against John.

Sherlock touched his lips to John's brow, then to his temple, his cheek and the corner of his mouth. John's hands trembled up to the black hair, and then his fingers stroked the pale, long nape of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock  kissed John's wet lips. Tenderly at first, but soon his kisses became deep, forceful and hungry. John darted his tongue over the perfect skin of Sherlock's neck and throat. Sherlock shuttered, the tension he had been feeling released itself. He groaned, and grabbed John about the waist. He took John closer, and pulled the zip of the sodden coat down. He tossed the mass of fabric aside and almost laughed at the sight of a black and white striped, long-sleeved T-shirt. John fumbled towards the belt of Sherlocks trousers but was stopped by Sherlock raising the jumper, exposing John's scarred flesh.

Their hands moved over each other, stroking, exploring. Sherlock drew a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses up John's stomach. John soon followed, tracing every inch of Sherlocks lips with his own. The hot, insistent kisses almost became too much. Sherlock's body convulsed, and John cried out.

John was suddenly aware that Sherlock was embracing him. Sherlock whispered his name and kissed him softly on the head.

John smiled "You're back."

"Not yet."

"What do you mean?" John knew the answer, but he had to ask.

"Why do you think I had us meet here? Mycroft..." Sherlock looked to the sky. For everything he had shown John, he still couldn't allow tears of anger to fall. "...the bastard didn't tell me what happened. I saw an article. I read about you. I didn't believe him. And I was right. You aren't fine. You ar-"

John grasped Sherlock's face, an imitation of the dance they did so many years ago in front of a brick wall. "I'm fine. Christ Sherlock, I was right. You're alive. I'm alright."

Sherlock shook his head, took John's wrists in his hands and pressed his forehead against John's "You can barely walk you idiot."

"Yes. There is that." John grinned.

"It's almost done. Moriarty's men are nearly gone. Just one left. One. I know where he is. But I couldn't...I can't involve you." Sherlock raised his head "Do you understand me? I cannot involve you."

"I think the three year's absence gave me an idea of that."

Sherlock stared "That's all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say? Do you want be to yell at you? Call you names? Deny you? I can't Sherlock. Jesus, the therapist thought I was fucked up before...I understand you. I know why you did it. Just as I knew you were alive."

Sherlock grabbed John and buried his face in John's shoulder.

"I forgive you Sherlock. Forgive yourself." John watched as Sherlock leaned back, his eyes rimmed red.

"It won't be long. I swear. A few weeks. Just a few more weeks." Sherlock hooked his hands in John's armpits and raised him. He then leaned and grabbed the near-forgotten cane.

The black car, once again, appeared from nowhere.

John was spent. His legs had given up. Sherlock nearly carried him to the waiting vehicle. He opened the door and piled John into the seat. He then raised his voice towards the front of the car "make sure you help him up to the flat. No matter what he says." Sherlock leaned in and kissed John upon his brow. "A few weeks John."

John laughed.

"What?"

"You'll be the one to shop now. I can't wait." John laughed even harder, then harder until he began to cry. The door closed and he never said goodbye.

Three weeks later, Sherlock returned.

John, the _real_ John, slowly emerged from the shadows.

Mrs. Hudson? She made them tea.

**Author's Note:**

> Con-crit always welcome...as well as any other comments ;)


End file.
